


Dark Skies

by Rosywonder



Series: First Year [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Partnership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:03:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosywonder/pseuds/Rosywonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya's first days in New York are not easy ones. Inspired by 'the sun ain't gonna shine any more' and the second story in 'first year' cycle, coming directly after 'Looking up'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a challenge on Live Journal Section VII.

  
DARK SKIES

Loneliness  
Is a cloak you wear  
A deep shade of blue  
Is always there  
  
The sun ain't gonna shine anymore  
The moon ain't gonna rise in the sky  
The tears are always clouding your eyes  
When you’re without love - Baby  
  
Emptiness  
Is a place you’re in  
With nothing to lose  
But no more to win

Nature had ordained that leaving the Old World was going to be a cataclysmic event Illya decided, turning up the collar of his raincoat and adjusting his step to catch the American’s rapid pace on the tarmac ahead of him.  By the time they had reached their seats his hair was plastered unflatteringly to his head while outside the rain was barrelling down the windows, obscuring his last view of the country he had grown to love despite all its faults, even because of them.

He glanced across at the other agent, who appeared inured to the English weather and whose gaze was now directed towards the front of the cabin from where the crew burst like actors on a tiny stage to instruct, feed, or cajole them into sleep through the long, tedious hours of the journey. 

The lowering skies of their departure darkened, then lightened across the evening, waiting to embrace them again as they dropped into a New World afternoon just as dreary as the old one they had left.  The American, as Illya now invariably called him, seemed unprepared to engage his charge in even polite conversation, preferring to sandwich periods of sleep with obvious demonstrations of his skill as a smooth talking and, it appeared, extremely successful lothario.  Whatever relationship Illya had imagined he might have with this man now seemed as nebulous as the shrouded stars above him.  Nothing was explained or outlined, except for the growing likelihood that as in London, he would be working alone.

Illya pondered the reason for his disappointment as the car pulled away from the airport, bumping and jerking them towards the city skyline. Eventually, after the suburban sprawl had begun to give way to the Manhattan of his hopes and dreams, those anxieties fell away for a while in the wonder of its sheer, brash, brutal beauty. Here the Old World had been stripped away; the straight, unending roads and blocks spun him, sputnik like, to his destination without the possibility of detour.

The American seemed utterly at ease in this city, as smoothly comfortable as his hands had been in the soft leather gloves Illya had noted him wearing.  He felt suddenly unstable, off balance in this fast moving, modern world.  Grimacing slightly he looked away from the other man and out of the window as the car slowed and parked. 

‘Welcome to UNCLE New York City’ Solo said a little wearily, jerking his head slightly towards the shop partially hidden from Illya’s view down a flight of steps. They were the first friendly words he had uttered since they had left London, and Illya imagined they would probably be the last for some time too. He stood as the driver unloaded their bags and tilting his head back slightly, looked up into the New York evening.  It was the last he was to see of it for a while.

***********

For two weeks the walls of what he now called ‘metal hell’ held him close; by the end of fourteen grey days Illya Kuryakin had experienced all of what UNCLE New York had to offer an agent from Europe whom seemingly nobody trusted.  To begin with he imagined it must be his nationality, but after several interrogations conducted by Waverly’s leading agent Grant Chesters, he was persuaded that any connection to Europe in general and Beldon in particular necessitated a thorough and painful investigation.

His public world, the missions undertaken in Europe; colleagues, friends and of course, Harry Beldon himself.  His private world, the little flat in South London; Madge, Janice and all who lived there; even Allegra, all were dissected, laid out in front of him neatly and then torn apart.  Only his life before UNCLE was left; he imagined Chesters as the _Picador_ in this particular _correo_ , wearing him down before the pipe smoking _Matador_ behind the steel doors finally dealt the lethal blow.

Then without warning it was over.  The interview with Waverly had occurred and the wisdom of the man had been apparent. Illya’s life before UNCLE was discussed, evaluated, and then put away in Waverly’s personal filing system. He had passed whatever bizarre tests they had thrown in front of him and now, for a few days at least, he was free to go.

********

‘We think this might be the best one for you, Mr Kuryakin.’  Illya stared at the key offered, its owner smiling encouragingly at him as he stood in front of her neat desk.

‘Why?’ he replied a little abruptly, causing her to frown slightly.  Her name was Melody, clearly displayed on a little golden necklace poking above her shirt, an item of jewellery Illya was sure was not part of her uniform.

‘Because, Mr Kuryakin, we thought you might like to live downtown with the other …’

‘The other what …?’  He leaned forward slightly over her desk, something he had observed Solo doing when they had first entered UNCLE by the agents’ entrance an eternity ago.  A satisfying blush resulted.

‘Uh, I meant… people, you know, like you .. oh, just go and look, you’ll like it, trust me.’

He looked down at the key with its neat, printed fob, ready for detaching and disposing of, and then slowly climbed up precipitous steps towards his new apartment.  Studying maps of Manhattan had familiarised him with neighbourhoods, roads, blocks and landmarks but maps did not convey the essence of a place.  Although he couldn’t claim to feel at home immediately at Appt 6, 42 St Mark’s Place, East Village, it was a beginning.  This apartment with its view of the street, somebody else’s furniture and his few possessions piled in the centre of the room was his, at least for now.

*******

The bathroom was tiny, a shower, a sink and a toilet; the usual mirror and shelf. Keeping the light off, he moved to the window, pulled the blind up and wrenched it open.  Despite the noise and the light, it was still obvious the stars remained hidden in a flat, dense universe.  He turned back and stood in front of the mirror for some time before slowly drifting back to the more silent bedroom. Lying motionless, warm tears clouded his eyes momentarily, before he allowed them to flow coldly away unimpeded onto the sheet below.

*******

Dark clouds gathered as he walked silently down the steps, turning away from the café wedged underneath the stone flight and gathering speed as he first jogged then ran along the shadowy street. Running was a form of therapy. He had run from the time he could walk, in happier times and places and now in this perplexing new world of his choosing.  Here it felt like racing, a track of sharp turns and flashing lights nodding to the next numbered road, block, intersection.  He ran freely, curving round trash cans, the detritus of cafes and shops and those whose night had been spent in a different way to his.  Silent school yards, garages, a sudden drenching rain through the swaying trees on 11th Street, all conspiring to slow his pace until eventually, the awning of the café came into view, the steps solid, waiting for him.

He was bent over slightly, leaning away from the street but unmistakeable all the same.  Illya stopped until his breathing slowed and then moved forward until his position on the steps gave him a perfect of view of Napoleon Solo below.  The empty cup indicated the American’s reason for being there, though it seemed a long way from the world Illya imagined he inhabited.  The glow of his cigarette explained his movement, but now he had returned to a more typical slouch on the chair, his jacket undone, the bowtie a black rag round his neck. 

For a brief moment Illya considered joining him, but the appearance of the waiter at the table restrained him.  Something, a noise above them attracted the American’s face upward. It was only then that Illya was able to see his eyes and know that the emptiness in them was a reflection of the man he had seen in the mirror.  

 


End file.
